


Wednesday

by Red



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Charles is the Nursing Home Bicycle, Erik is a Troll, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, Injury Recovery, M/M, Old Age, Old Mutant Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2012823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting confined to a nursing facility for a six-week course of iv antibiotics would have been dreadfully dull, had Charles not found a way to "occupy his time." </p>
<p>In which Erik Lehnsherr, retired nazi hunter, becomes the latest victim of Charles Xavier's charms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Среда](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733672) by [Lazurit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lazurit/pseuds/Lazurit)



> Inspired by a [tumblr prompt](http://pearlo.tumblr.com/post/90706370974/talking-on-twitter-about-the-pet-peeve-of-but-old) from pearlo that read, " _Talking on Twitter about the pet peeve of “but old people don’t have sex!” and I’ve come to the conclusion of that somebody needs to write the AU where Charles and Erik meet and fall in love as elderly dudes in a nursing home and have to have awkward conversations about safe sex because there are lots of STDs going around the facility from the senior citizens banging so much._ " 
> 
> Many thanks to metron ariston, velvetcadence, ikeracity, and youdidnotseeme for all listening to my constant issues with editing. You guys are all saints, and any remaining mistakes are all me.

Generally, it’s Wednesdays when he first sees the new inmates. There’s a commotion on Tuesdays of medical transporters and nurses and middle-aged kids, thick enough you can’t ever make out anything of the actual _patient_. 

But Wednesdays? That’s when they’ll wander out to the common area if they’re up to it. And if they’re not--

Charles has received the “don’t harass the other ‘guests’” speech from every staff member here at least once, multiple times from a few of them. If anything, he’s been told off by his fellow inmates even more often. But by week four of his six-week marriage to an IV pole, he’s bored as hell and keen to get kicked out--it’d be fine to finish the course at home, he'd manage well enough--so whenever someone fails to leave their room, _he_ goes to _them_. 

Yesterday, there were three new admissions. Two of them--infected foot, new knee--made it out today to face his scrutiny. Both prove to be nice enough in a dull manner: one’s a retired banker, the other once the beleaguered wife of one. This rehab place isn’t a _complete_ dive, which is to say it’s prohibitively expensive for most. Some days, Charles wonders whether he’ll ever meet someone without a business degree and a lifetime of golf-related anecdotes. He leaves the two to swap their tales of valor under economic fire, and goes to meet admission three. 

This inmate's got a corner room. It's actually just across the hall from Charles’s own, but that rarely bodes well. 

Anyone with a corner room is almost guaranteed to be two things: rich, and dreadfully dull. Not everyone has Charles’s charm or well-kept inheritance (the latter of which he’d only rarely dipped into the last eighty-something years, since selling off that ridiculous mansion was _more_ than enough to cover the needs of a single professor), and the prior inhabitant of the room in question was a kindly new-hip with endless tales of dentistry past. 

_All the same_ , Charles thinks, _I’ve got a duty here_. He needs to welcome this poor soul. 

And what else is he going to do? _Crafts_? Perish the thought. 

He knocks on the door, courteously. Charles has nearly fifty years more experience with basic medical etiquette than anyone here, he’s not about to catch someone in an indelicate situation if he can help it. 

What he hears in return is a low, very cross, “What did you forget this time?” 

It is almost certainly not intended for him, but Charles is just going to take it as an invitation. He opens the door and wheels his way in, and it's immediately apparent why this guy didn’t make it to breakfast. 

Another new hip, and from the look of it, a few broken bones along with: his right leg is torso-to-shin all splint. It’s propped up on two pillows, while the owner’s leaning against a few dozen more, iPad down and glaring over his glasses. 

Promising, Charles thinks, offering his most winning smile. Even if the new guy here is boring to _talk_ with, he’s at least decent to _look_ at--sharp grey eyes, trim but not too thin, still in possession of an envious amount of thick silver hair--and right now, he’s a captive audience. 

“You’re not Wanda,” the man states, frowning at Charles. Just his _voice_ is a delight, clipped and oddly accented in a way that implies he didn’t spend forty years of his life in a Wall Street office and the last twenty in Florida. 

“I’m afraid not,” Charles says, taking the liberty to wheel in a bit closer. “You missed breakfast, so I thought I’d come by and offer my welcome.”

“That’s what you thought.” The new guy shifts to get himself propped up a little higher in bed, like he’s trying to be imposing. 

Charles just grins. It’s difficult to lord over anyone in a hospital bed, age a lovely equalizer, and beyond that--

Beyond that, there’s no missing it, this close-up. This new guy isn’t _just_ glaring. He’s scanning Charles up and down, looking him over and pausing on his arms and mouth, and Charles is _certainly_ old enough by now to know when he’s being checked out. 

“Well, such as it is. I’m stuck here,” he purrs, making it showy when he rolls up his sleeve a little to let the new guy see his upper arm, under the guise of showing off the wrapped PICC line. “Two more weeks of antibiotics, extremely belated gift from rheumatic fever. And you’re stuck here with me.” Obliging, the new guy stares at his arm a second more before he seems to remember he’s supposed to be glowering. 

“Might as well offer my condolences,” Charles finishes. 

“Hmmph.”

To tell the truth, even the crabby-old-man act is welcome. At breakfast everyone was effusive, obnoxiously cheerful for physical therapy to start. 

Charles only ever has the next dose of gentamicin. 

“Save them,” the man adds, “You didn’t run me over.” 

Charles raises his eyebrows. “Really,” he says, flatly. Wouldn’t be the first someone lied about slipping in a shower, won’t be the last, but new guy snorts like he’s dealt with skeptics before and starts tapping at his iPad. 

“Yes, as you put it, ‘really,’” he intones, brandishing the screen. 

It’s a news website. Center page, there’s a clear photo of the man before him, splayed out on a road. 

There’s also a skidded Jeep, two police cars, and what looks like a great deal of college kids around a felled table. The headline reads, “Healthcare protest provokes accident.”

Charles licks his lips, leaning in. Less than ten minutes in, and this man is already more interesting than anyone Charles has met in the last _decade_. 

“So I see,” he murmurs. 

New guy turns toward Charles, best as he’s able with the splinted leg. 

“My hip was shattered. Knee’s a complete loss, too,” he says, sounding proud. 

His voice is even lower yet. Charles feels his blood warming. 

“Sounds as if you think it worth it,” Charles says, putting his hand on the new guy’s arm to angle the iPad better, trying to read the _rest_ of the story. It is a rather curious headline, after all. 

Before he can read a word he sees the tattoo, scarcely faded by time. Shock runs cold through Charles, but new guy doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps doesn't care.

“Oh, it was. Have you ever heard of LaRoucheans?” he asks, and Charles is going to say _no, do tell,_ when the door swings open. 

“Dad I’m sorry I completely forgot to bring you your--oh! You’re making a friend!” 

“ _Wanda_ ,” the new guy growls. Charles glances between them. The familial resemblance is unmistakable, but the woman--who looks to be in her forties--has a _much_ less threatening smile. She sweeps in the room, drops off a bag, and reaches to shake Charles’s hand. 

“It's a pleasure to meet you. Don’t let Dad tell you any stories. Yeah, he pushed over their table and they called the cops, useless little worms. But _he’s_ the one that stormed right out into traffic, so--”

“ _Wanda--_ ,” he repeats, starting in with her, both of them going off rapid-fire in a language with which Charles isn’t immediately familiar. Trying to be unobtrusive, he reaches down to unlock the brakes on his chair, but new guy stops him with a touch on the arm.

“No. You're going to stay with me,” he demands. It sounds imperious, yet entirely sexual. 

More and more impressive, Charles thinks. This guy isn’t even trying to hide it from his _daughter_.

“Oh, but I so hate to impose.” 

He says it like a flirtation, because it seems like what’s being dared of him. 

It works. Wanda blanches, looking suddenly uncomfortable. 

“Um. Dad,” she starts, glancing between them, and new guy grins his impressive, toothy smile. 

“Don’t worry, dear. We’ll practice safe--”

“ _I’llbebackonFridaywiththeboys_ ” she blurts out before all but running out the door, and Charles leans forward against the new guy again, this time laughing. 

“That was cruel,” he accuses when he can. The man's put his iPad aside, and now has a hand on Charles’s shoulder. He's still grinning. 

“She seems a lovely girl,” Charles says, attempting to look stern.

“Pfft. Wanda's not been a _girl_ since the eighties. But she _is_ an amazing woman, much as she may hover.” 

“Takes after her mother, then?” Charles asks. He doesn’t mean to pry, but it feels the question is unavoidable. These days, everyone’s been widowed at least once. 

“Very much so. She’s also very much alive, if that’s what you’re sniffing out,” the new guy says, and Charles feels his heart drop.

It’s not as if men of their age didn’t marry for convenience's sake, but there can be a love in that, an intimacy built up from what was once mere ruse. 

And Charles really _does_ hate to impose. 

New guy moves his hand to Charles’s jaw, tilting his face towards his own. “Magda is far healthier and happier than the day I met her. And, I may add, we’ve been divorced for far longer than we were ever wed.” 

“I see,” Charles murmurs. “Is there--”

“Do you interrogate all your nursing home conquests?” 

Charles smiles, unrepentant. “They don’t often quite have your depth,” he says, leaning forward that last little bit, finally daring a kiss. New guy surges against him, mouth hot and welcoming. When Charles breaks it off, they’re both panting. “You so rarely need to interrogate bankers,” he jokes, breathless.

“Funny, that used to be my job,” the man says, and Charles doesn’t have any doubt that he means it _literally_. Even now, there's a sort of lethality in this man that Charles finds painfully attractive, and he pushes forward again, kissing with force. 

Things start to progress rather quickly, as they kiss and let their hands roam. Charles pushes up to pull off his own shirt, minding the PICC line, and then sets to unbutton the new guy's, wary of all his injuries. The new guy gives him a long appreciating stroke, shoulder to waist, before urging him up slightly. 

“These doors,” he says, glaring over Charles’s shoulder, “I don’t suppose they lock?” 

“Not as such,” Charles admits. He has been with partners who insisted on wedging furniture under the handle, but Charles hopes this one isn't so paranoid. It's hard work, moving a chair on his own, and all it really does is piss off the staff. “But no one should be by, I don’t think. You’re not due any medication soon? Not even painkillers? I have another--” he glances at the small clock on the already-decorated bookshelf. “--hour and a half before I need to be decent for the nurses.” 

“No, nothing,” the new guy says. “And Wanda’s been traumatized enough. I suppose it’s all right.”

They’re on the end of the hall, and you can hear the medication cart coming a mile away. This new guy probably has realized that much by now, and Charles grins, unbuttoning his pants. 

“We’ll just have to make this quick, won’t we?” Charles asks. Perhaps they should _introduce themselves_ before his next question, but he can’t help himself as he transfers to the narrow bed and shoves his own pants to the knees. 

“I’m afraid this has been rather touch-and-go for me, ever since Korea,” he admits, propping himself carefully on the man’s uninjured side. “How is it for you?” 

Undeterred, new guy is already running one hand down Charles’s chest, thumbing firm and demanding at one nipple; he’s skimming down the softness of Charles's stomach to slip his hand between Charles’s thighs. 

The sensations there are diminished, but the image exquisite, and Charles groans. It’s not been terribly long for him--of course the new guy isn’t mistaken, there _have_ been other nursing home conquests, what _else_ is Charles supposed to do with six weeks away from his apartment--but this man is so viciously gorgeous, and Charles can’t help wondering what he'd be like if he weren’t basically in traction. 

“Why don’t you find out?” the man finally asks, spreading his good leg outward. Charles looks down the rangy, scarred lines of his body to curse in approval. 

Despite whatever pain medications this new guy is almost certainly on, he’s still getting hard. And the _size_ of the bulge, canting left--away from the shattered hip, thank god--Charles is suddenly and for the first time thankful for Hank’s insistence that the apartment was “a bit crowded” for an IV pole. 

“Now that is lovely,” Charles says, reaching down. The angle isn’t perfect, and the way the hip brace is built, it could double as a chastity belt. But eventually--with the new guy’s help--he manages to ease that impressive cock through the gap in his boxers and rucked-up trousers, he curls his fingers back to grope the loose warm weight of new guy’s balls before circling the fat shaft and starting to pump.

Charles wishes the bed were wider, that they had more time, that this man wasn’t hissing in suppressed pain every single time he tried to thrust into Charles’s hand. He wishes they were back at his apartment, both of them healthy enough to use some of the equipment he’s gathered over the years--particularly since he’s sure the sling would be better for new guy’s hip than this tiny bed. He wishes they had a bit more privacy, that he could make this scream. 

Because Charles is certain he _could_. Whatever this new guy has been up to in the last few years, it doesn’t seem to have involved his prick, an idea Charles finds absolutely criminal. He reacts to every little brush of Charles’s fingers, groaning and cursing with each stroke, sensitive as a man a quarter his age. And though Charles isn’t getting hard, he’s helpless before this man’s passion. He kisses Charles with desperate, brutal thoroughness, his free hand cupping the back of Charles’s head like he doesn’t mind the lack of hair at all; he nips at jaw and neck and murmurs lewd encouragement in Charles’s ear. 

It’s thrilling, the sort of recklessly bad idea Charles can’t help but find arousing. They could be discovered any minute. Fuck, they could pop the staples on new guy’s new hip. _I don’t even know his name_ , Charles keeps thinking, and he moans loud into new guy’s mouth, body tensing as he feels the slow telling pulse of the cock in his hand. 

New guy isn’t noisy when he comes, but he’s not quiet, either. He gasps against Charles’s ear, panting harshly as his prick spurts weak into Charles's hand. Almost right away, he moves to grasp at Charles’s wrist, stilling him.

"Mmm," Charles murmurs, relaxing into the kiss he's offered. "Hour to spare, not bad for a new hip," he jokes. New guy grumbles, but he doesn't stop caressing Charles's back and arms. 

"You enjoyed yourself," he asks. It sounds more like he's stating a fact. 

"Naturally," Charles says, "and this is perfectly lovely, too." He'd always been a bit of a cuddler, even as a young man. The appeal has never worn off. 

"Is that so?" the new guy asks. He traces idly over Charles's face, over his lips and and nose and up over his forehead before stroking over his scalp. It's as if he's trying to memorize Charles, his gaze is so piercing. 

"You're quite beautiful," he says, and Charles can't help but smile. But the man breaks away soon enough, gathering tissues from the nightstand. 

Charles accepts a few, cleaning off his hand as he watches new guy sort out pants from brace. 

"You can't flatter me like that without giving me your name," Charles finally suggests. 

"Yet this _indiscretion_ was acceptable." The tone is teasing, at least. It can be so tedious--and dangerous for one’s health, considering their abysmal compliance with the most basic of precautionary measures--sleeping with men who think it’s still the fifties.

The man keeps buttoning his shirt as he glances back at Charles. 

"Erik," he says. "Erik Lehnsherr. I'd shake, but--"

"Yes, but. Considering the circumstances," Charles agrees. His own pants back to rights, he slips on his shirt again. "Charles Xavier," he offers in return, once he's comfortable again by this Erik fellow's side. 

"Charles," Erik says, and he puts an arm around Charles's shoulder and flashes his broad, sharp grin. "I have the feeling my time here has just become a bit more interesting."

"And mine," Charles says. "So, regale me again, the tale of your hip."

And Erik does, and they fall to talking, all consideration of time and the building beyond this small room forgotten. When the nurse opens the door, it startles them both. 

Erik sits up like he thinks he's able to go anywhere, only to fall back with a curse.

"There you are," the nurse says, narrowing her eyes at Charles. "Thought I'd find you here," and Charles clears his throat. 

Really, a few moments here and there and a man suddenly finds himself with a _reputation_. 

"Yes, well," he says, glancing at Erik. At the moment, he seems too annoyed with his propped leg to pay much mind to Charles's ill repute. "You see--"

"Can’t he have the antibiotics in here?" Erik interrupts. 

Charles raises his eyebrows. He wouldn't have dared to make the suggestion himself, but the nurse only looks resigned when Erik asks. Maybe _he's_ already a reputation, too. They've talked enough now for Charles to know Erik isn't independently wealthy per se, he just has three comfortably-well-off kids who like him enough to want him to have decent care but not nearly enough to put up with him at home. Charles has only known him an hour and half, but he has the feeling Erik can be a _touch_ difficult. 

"I suppose," the nurse says, "But only on one condition." 

Erik starts grumbling, but Charles places a hand on his arm, stilling him. Charles gives the nurse his most innocent smile. 

"Of course," he says. 

"You won't bother _anyone_ next Wednesday."

"Of course not," Charles promises. The nurse gives him a withering, suspicious look. 

"On my honor," he adds, glancing back at Erik, at the handsome rough line of his jaw. "I suspect I'll be rather busy, regardless."

And he is, for his every Wednesday after.


End file.
